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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418447">Making Love to Jesus</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven'>MistyBeethoven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>"Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You with a Story or a Picture" [101]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Private Lives of Pippa Lee (2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BBW, Bible, Christian Character, Christianity, Crushes, Electrocution, F/M, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, Guilt, Hand Jobs, High School, Jesus - Freeform, Love, Love Stories, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Overweight, Pre-Canon, Regret, Religion, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Revolutionaries, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Tattoos, Teenagers, Undressing, Vaginal Fingering, Valentine's Day, Weight Issues, erasers, prayers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:13:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,471</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29418447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout high school, Chris Nadeau spends classes listlessly daydreaming of not being there, while I spend them daydreaming of making love to the handsome lad. </p><p>After a freak accident leaves Chris with a mission to serve God, though, and after a unique Valentine's Day exchange between us, I find myself growing even more closer to him through our shared Christianity. </p><p>But as Chris' reputation as a delinquent oddball pushes him out of our hometown, giving him the perfect opportunity for his longed dreamt of escape, I find that a certain tattoo forbids me from having my own daydreams come true.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chris Nadeau/Me</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>"Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You with a Story or a Picture" [101]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589944</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Making Love to Jesus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Valentine's Day Keanu and Everyone!</p><p>This turned out rather an odd Valentine's Day entry. It's only half of the story. But l spent all day writing it yesterday and half today spell checking it and needed to get it posted. Plus, like the "Night Before" entry, it had a certain pretty quality to it if the ending was left sweet and sad.</p><p>This features Chris backstory, greatly culled from the source material novel by Rebecca Miller. Before you praise me for reading the book, I didn't. I got the PDF and searched for Chris' name. It only showed up about 51 times. :/ But it was informative.</p><p>I'm posting it at 2:00. 2 people make the best sweethearts or lovers, Adam and Eve numbered two, a heart is two halves...Well...You get the drift.</p><p>I'm doing it at LA time because that is where half of my heart is today. ;D &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chris Nadeau would often sit in the classes we shared together, playing with the top of his eraser and looking like he wished with all the heart that surely felt caged within the classroom holding fifteen other students, that he wished he was somehow free and somewhere else.</p><p> </p><p>I stared at him often, waiting for the moment that the eraser he was playing with would finally break free itself and fall off. He never knew it, but I collected each of those eraser tips after he had left the room. Sometimes I would find them sitting on his desk while other times I had had to linger longer to dish them out of the garbage can.</p><p> </p><p>Chris was also never aware that I'd often sit there, listening to the teacher rambling on about a book I already understood perfectly well or a mathematical soloution I didn't understand in the least and never would, make believing that the eraser was really my nipple and getting very excited about the whole idea.</p><p> </p><p>I was still a virgin at the age I first met Chris Nadeau, even though a few of my classmates weren't. But I'd been obsesssed with sex for about as long as I could remember. Once, when I was a very little girl and something sexual had come on the TV, I'd turned and asked my mother what that tingling feeling was between my legs and she had told me point blank. Now, all these years later, the memory mortified me and mingled with shame. Nothing had changed much though. I still thought about sex more than I should have and had an attraction to it. Yet guilt existed by its side, a fear inside my very spiritual mind that I was dirty for such thoughts and yearnings and by how He had made my body react to the very notion of making love.</p><p> </p><p>Still it was okay to look but not to touch, I reasoned.</p><p> </p><p>Or maybe not okay to look at all, during my more tormented moments.</p><p> </p><p>I'd constantly skim books, the types they didn't teach you in school, for the sex scenes only to feel horrible about it afterwards and plead with God to forgive me and have mercy on my poor, dirty, sex depraved mind. I'd promise that I'd never do it again.</p><p> </p><p>Only to be down on my knees begging for forgiveness a few weeks later for the same sin, one compounded with being a liar.</p><p> </p><p>I knew that I shouldn't look but I always wound up doing it.</p><p> </p><p>Just like I did, stealing both glances at Chris and his erasers.</p><p> </p><p>The object of my love and lust was known as a bit of a ruffian in the high school we both attended but he was also one of the nicest boys I had ever known (having never teased me for being very overweight) and also one of the most attractive. He was beautiful with his slightly slanted eyes and fine features but this wasn't what drove me crazy about the boy. What had made me attracted physically to him was his shaggy, floppy hair, his long energetic body and his truly radiant smile. It was a manly type of goofiness in a way.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, and his constant air of wishing he were doing something else.</p><p> </p><p>So while Chris sat there wishing he was somewhere else I was just grateful to be there with him and collecting pencil erasers as if they were Valentines instead of things merely meant to take away mistakes, things believed to occur often in the hell of high school.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p>I spent about three years staring at Chris Nadeau in various classrooms and collected so many erasers that the bottom drawer in my bedroom was getting pretty full, before the accident occurred that pretty well changed his life.</p><p> </p><p>The boy, whom had once called friends a wide assortment of juvenile delinquents and future parolees, had went and been electrocuted by the dryer after his mother had asked him to fix it. At least that's what some stories stated. Others claimed that it was the washer, some the TV and a few percentage a broken down toaster in the kitchen. I seriously doubted the latter. Chris' dad was a dentist, and from what I'd heard, his mother Dot wanted everything in the house to look clean and untouched. My mom knew Dot and had often heard both before and after the accident how Chris Nadeau was "half baked". I was unsure what that meant exactly. I pictured cookies removed from the oven too fast and not allowed to finish. But was this the same for people? I was a preemie myself but Chris never seemed <em>undone</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Although many thought after the dryer incident that the boy <em>had</em> become seriously undone.</p><p> </p><p>Chris, a boy whom had seemed pretty well like many of his peers, suddenly came back with the fire of God inside of him. While once he had held a semi-agnostic viewpoint on the idea of a creative Deity, Chris now believed in him feverently. He stopped playing basketball in strangers' driveways in favor of going to church. It was rumored that when he excused himself to use the washroom during class he was really going to pray there for the souls of his classmates. Sometimes he'd get into fights with anyone he perceived as abusing the Lord, be it atheist or Christian alike.</p><p> </p><p>He was viewed as strange and a weirdo by both children and adults. His friends had all eventually abandoned him by the time he turned eighteen and he had likewise stopped trying to change them. "Pearls before swine," I heard him mumbling once as he brushed by me, leaving behind his former friends and the many sacrilegious jokes at his expense.</p><p> </p><p>I found myself looking at him more than ever though. It wasn't the same way humans usually found themselves looking at some horrible accident on the side of the road either. Chris Nadeau fascinated me more than ever with his deep spirituality, hair grown down to his shoulders now and his dark, fiery eyes. He was possibly the only other person in school as obsessed with God and Jesus as I was. I'd never been a church goer, but I had always <em>believed</em>, especially after seeing a crucifixtion segment on a show called 100 Huntley Street when I was about ten. Seeing Jesus suffering then had moved me to tears. And before that, when I was about six or seven, I had seen the clouds shaped like a stairway in the sky through my childhood's home picture window.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, that last one might have been made up, I'd been wrestling with it for years. Still I always felt God somewhere closeby, stairway or not.</p><p> </p><p>That Chris had found him too during his five minutes of unconciousness attracted me. I would sit in class and still find myself stealing glances at the boy, glances which grew longer until I was enraptured and afraid to take my eyes away from him.</p><p> </p><p>A very dangerous pastime I soon discovered when during one sunny January afternoon, Chris turned around and met my eyes.</p><p> </p><p>His head had turned so quickly, I hadn't had the time to avert my head as I usually did when I thought I might get caught.</p><p> </p><p>The moment our eyes made contact, it was like I could feel it through my soul. It was the one hundred and ten volts of electricity which had almost killed Chris Nadeau, I realized, and it was being transferred to mine through our locked irises.</p><p> </p><p>The shock made me paralyzed and I just continued to hold his gaze while the teacher prattled on about economics. Aside from my feeling of being irrationally electrocuted, I was humiliated as well: a fat girl found staring in adoration at a far better looking boy. What made it even worse was that my fear translated into more arousal as Chris continued to play with the nipple like eraser at the end of his pencil.</p><p> </p><p>Everything suddenly seemed to center between my legs and I couldn't stop myself from the feeling swelling to something I wasn't ready for.</p><p> </p><p>I came for the first time in the middle of the classroom, Nadeau's dark eyes boring into mine as the eraser fell off and hit the desk. I tried to cover it up, the lower half of me going crazy with it's brutal and vivid spasms, from my clit to my vagina and to my anus, which was a shock really. I'd enjoyed my fair share of sex ed classes but nobody had ever told me that <em>that</em> area was connected to sex and that it would behave in that particular way. The whole time, I was orgasming, Chris continued to stare and I just hoped he didn't know what he had done to me and what was happening. That would have embarrassed me all the more. I didn't want him to think it was <em>gross</em> making the biggest girl in class climax in the desk she had to squeeze into each day.</p><p> </p><p>It was kind of sad though in a way.</p><p> </p><p>During the whole event, I found no emotional ecstasy in it; it was primarily a physical occurence. What struck me about it was how <em>violent</em> it was actually. Oh, I was sure with all of the power it possessed it was what some girls would label a twenty out of ten on the richter scale of orgasms but all the while it was going on, all I could think of was how I had been lied to. The notion of it being this beautiful and satisfying affair had been horribly misrepresented. All it seemed to be was my body trying to greedily clench and pull on something that was not there. And I knew it was all just in order to try to get me <em>pregnant</em>.</p><p> </p><p>I'd envisioned an orgasm being like making it to some great summit and reaching out your hand to touch God: some sexual equivalent of the Sistine Chapel and oneness. Instead all it was a whole lot of spasming.</p><p> </p><p>My romantic notions seemed to crumble at my lowly desk and I experienced a far more educational lesson on sex than watching frogs going at it from behind or cartoons of sperms with silly expressions all swimming for one pretty egg.</p><p> </p><p>Finally after about a minute, the whole thing died down. As a pleasant kind of heat flooded me, my heart racing also rather pleasantly, Chris Nadeau began to smile at me; it was the same delighted grin that he had always possessed but now it was offered to me. I returned it, feeling cream spilling out from me and a more welcomed peace filling me. I doubted that the boy was aware that I had come right there a row back from him. But his smile seemed to indicate that something had passed between us: a perceived understanding.</p><p> </p><p>I smiled back shyly as Chris turned his head and returned to ignoring the lesson again but with a certain restlessness, his eraser now gone and nothing left to play with. I continued to sit there coming down from my orgasm and trying to still both my breathing and my heart.</p><p> </p><p>I was still terribly disappointed. But in some strange way, I also felt grateful. I thanked God for what I had just experienced, even as the guilt prowled around like a lion or bear after a certain shepherd boy named David's flock of sheep.</p><p> </p><p>At the end of the class, I was close to something resembling normal but feared actually having to get to my feet and walk on legs that felt more like jelly. I kept looking at the eraser lying on Chris' desk and wanted it more than any other. Today Chris had smiled at me in something more than just his common friendly way.</p><p> </p><p>Today he had <em>seen</em> me.</p><p> </p><p>I stayed sitting at my desk, though, incase I fell to the floor in a heap and garnered attention before my act of thievery..</p><p> </p><p>Staying where I was, I watched in disappointment as Chris clutched the pink nub in his hand. I expected him to walk towatds the garbage can and toss it amongst the pieces of gum that would trick me and the crumpled up papers of frustration and error and spitballs. However, I watched in shock as he started to walk towards my desk instead.</p><p> </p><p>Meeting my eyes, his own less dark this up close, Chris Nadeau took my hand and tenderly uncurled the fingers. Gently he placed the eraser onto my palm and then placed my fingers back over it. My skin buzzed with something like another hundred and ten jolt of pure electricity as his knuckles and fingers touched my skin.</p><p> </p><p>"Here," he said. "You wanted it right?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yes," I replied. His gaze told me there was no room inside of either his life or heart for liars. "Thank you."</p><p> </p><p>He nodded once, placed his hands in his pockets and walked away, full of holy fire and surety.</p><p> </p><p>I carried the eraser around with me all day like it was something sacred. At night, when the time had come around to put it in with the other treasured ones, I wrapped it in a Kleenex first so I could tell it apart from its siblings, for they had all been stolen but it alone had been a gift.</p><p> </p><p>Trying to sleep, I failed miserably, too busy thinking about sex and Chris Nadeau. Would my first climax have felt any better with some part of Chris buried deep inside of me? If I'd been offering him pleasure would it have made me feel truly satisfied? I wanted to find out but couldn't. I felt guilty thinking about it all so I knelt by my bed and prayed to God to forgive me. I hoped to end off the day with thoughts of Him instead of se  but even after my prayers were said, my mind returned to Chris and my endless ponderings of what making love to him would feel like.</p><p> </p><p>Not that I ever would.</p><p> </p><p>An eraser would probably be the only thing that I'd ever get from the boy; the last touch, that of his fingers on my own and then brushing against my palm.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>By the time Valentine's Day rolled around the next month, I'd been too shy to outright stare at Chris again. I'd steal glimpses here and there but that was all that I dared to attempt. I couldn't find the courage or boldness for lengthy admiration of the boy. And watching him play with the eraser was also out of the question.</p><p> </p><p>I wasn't expecting the day devoted to lovers to be any different.</p><p> </p><p>In grade school, Valentine's had routinely been exchanged, with certain ones treasured. But high school was a different beast, one where those simple sentiments were considered too childish and acceptance was rarely offered with a paper cutout.</p><p> </p><p>Still when I reached the final class shared with Chris, I found something waiting for me on my desk.</p><p> </p><p>It was a religious pamphlet, something like the Jehovah Witness' left inside of the door when you were out or simply wouldn't answer. Some words had been scrawled in the blue heavenly sky depicted on it, the only place that was large enough for an inscription to be made.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <strong>Happy Valentine's Day, Erin.</strong> </em>
  <br/>
  <em> <strong>-Chris (Warrior of Christ)</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I was in shock again, the normal type, and kept it close to me, hidden under my books. However, though I tried to meet the boys eyes throughout class, he refused to look, staring blankly ahead as was his calling.</p><p> </p><p>After school, I approached him in the corridor beside his locker. I knew it was Chris' because he'd graffied it's gray metal surface with scriptural quotes, something he'd received a two week suspension for. They either hadn't made him wash it off though or couldn't found a solution which was sucessful for rubbing clean the words meant to save or inspire the human soul but deemed as offensive as a crude "Fuck You" for some reason.</p><p> </p><p>"Here," I said, taking Chris' hand and placing the sheet of paper I'd worked on for the entire duration of a Social Studies class.</p><p> </p><p>Chris looked at the cartoon of a sheep lying next to a wolf and smiled as his lips moved to the inscription, a mirror to his own:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <strong>Happy Valentine's Day, Chris.</strong> </em>
  <br/>
  <em> <strong>-Erin (Your sister in Christ)</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Our eyes met and we smiled at one another.</p><p> </p><p>"You know, Saint Valentine was a warrior," Chris Nadeau suddenly stated. "They paint him as a romantic but he was persecuted for administering to Christians when the Romans forbade it. They killed him for it but he didn't care. The Saints were all like that: true rebels and revolutionaries."</p><p> </p><p>I smiled at him again. Being around Chris Nadeau, for me, was like skidding in your socks on a carpet. It left you feeling full of a buzz, only Chris' was half crazy and wholly holy.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes," I agreed. "They had to be when in all likelihood they were going to die."</p><p> </p><p>Chris smiled at me again, his mouth closed this time and I burned all over.</p><p> </p><p>"You read the Bible?" he asked.</p><p> </p><p>"I do," I answered. I didn't bother telling him that I had only really started because I'd promised God I would if my mom didn't get into too much trouble for my absenses from school. Just like I also neglected to tell him that I enjoyed rereading the sex parts because I took it as God approved pornography. </p><p> </p><p>"You ever go to church?" he followed up. </p><p> </p><p>"No," I confessed.</p><p> </p><p>"Why not?" he asked, half accusatory, the other half simply curious.</p><p> </p><p>"God's temple is a man's heart," I countered. "A bed is as good as a pew."</p><p> </p><p>I cringed inwardly at that. It sounded potentially sexual but Chris only nodded, accepting it as it sounded upfront instead of what my dirty mind had perceived.</p><p> </p><p>"Want to read it together sometime?" he asked.</p><p> </p><p>Was it a date, I wondered? Or did he simply seek my spiritual salvation? In any case, I gave my answer speedily enough. "Yes!"</p><p> </p><p>He nodded again. "I'll walk you home if you like," he suggested. "There are too many wolves about."</p><p> </p><p>"My mom's picking me up today," I said with regret, very much wishing to be a sheep in Chris Nadeau's flock.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll walk you to your car then," he altered his offer without pause.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," I said, too shy to say that I was eternally grateful.</p><p> </p><p>As we turned away, though, I noticed that the boy had not placed closed the padlock on his locker. Turning back, I noticed that he didn't even have one.</p><p> </p><p>"Aren't you afraid someone is going to steal from you?" I asked.</p><p> </p><p>"I build my treasures in heaven not on earth," he explained with an accompanying shrug. "Besides, people only tend to steal what they don't have or what they want. Everyone here already has textbooks and nobody wants them to begin with."</p><p> </p><p>The reply was perfectly logical and yet spiritual.</p><p> </p><p>Perfectly Chris Nadeau.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>We got to know each other pretty well over the next few months but never anywhere close to the biblical sense. We'd pray, read from the scriptures and sometimes watch movies together. Chris enjoyed the old biblical pictures. He enjoyed telling me about what they got right and what they had gotten horribly wrong and liked primarilly the ones where Jesus or any of the apostles, saints or prophets were warriors. To him violence and passion were a part of his faith. I thought of my body's first coming in economics and wondered if that was connected to this too: the mingling of violence with love and creation. I couldn't ask him about that though without embarrassing myself. Had he had sex? I didn't know and didn't dare ask.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, I just let him talk about his belief that God loved the revolutionaries. Being a meek servant of God (whom he saw as loving but without mercy) didn't make any sense to him. When lives and souls were on the line, quiet complacency and trying not to offend wasn't high on his list. He wanted to save everyone but had a low tolerance level for bullshit.</p><p> </p><p>"Is that why you woke up the neighborhood shouting for everyone to stop lying to each other?" I asked once.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," Chris replied.</p><p> </p><p>It was then that I realized I'd never heard Chris Nadeau, himself, lie. And like a fool I tried to prove my theory.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you think I'm fat?" I asked.</p><p> </p><p>Chris answered in all of two seconds with another "Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>My feelings were wounded until he quickly added. "But you're pretty."</p><p> </p><p>I smiled, any hurt brushed over. If he said it it was the truth to him.</p><p> </p><p>I didn't have the heart to ask if he loved me though.</p><p> </p><p>I already knew that if he answered "No," I would be damaged with no following truths able to fix it.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>Chris' behavior did not improve after graduation. He got into fights in bars and was arrested, sent to jail now after being of age. This all happened following the boy being rejected for the priesthood. I couldn't say that disappointed me as much as it did my friend. The chance he'd leave to join the order disturbed me, not exactly putting to rest my impure thoughts of him but adding a new layer of guilt to them.</p><p> </p><p>Still, his rejection was stirring him to become more and more emboldened. He had taken to stealing money from their wallets to give to the poor and had stopped writing on lockers to spray paint on the more widely seen sides of buildings instead. His parents were going crazy and Chris was getting a reputation throughout our town for being a troublemaker or outright freak.</p><p> </p><p>He had even gotten a tattoo right after his stay in prison but wouldn't show it to me.</p><p> </p><p>"Why?" I asked him.</p><p> </p><p>"You'll see it when the time is right," he said enigmatically. "I plan on showing it to you.</p><p> </p><p>Weeks passed and still I hadn't seen it.</p><p> </p><p>I was torn in my need to protect him and my knowing that he was one of the bravest and most genuine men God had ever created. He was growing closer to just picking up and leaving, I could tell; trying to fly off on his warrior wings to some other town where he could be of service without baggage and where he was unknown and hence unreviled. It was the chance for his classroom daydream to become a reality. I tried selfishly to keep him close to me all the same. "Maybe you could try to just <em>act</em> like you're going to follow the system," I suggested. "You know, so you can take it down from the inside?"</p><p> </p><p>"That in itself would be false," he argued. "Besides, a prophet is never recognized in his hometown," he quoted scripture at me, throwing back another dose of shame when I realized that I was just as much of a hypocrite as those he continually raged war on.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry," I said, refusing to look at him as we sat together, side by side on the park bench outside of the library.</p><p> </p><p>"You're forgiven," he said, refusing to look at me either.</p><p> </p><p>I raised my head to look at him, knowing that I had lost him already; he was never going to stay. "Just do me a favor," I asked, studying the dark eyes and profile that I loved. "Before you go, come and say goodbye?"</p><p> </p><p>Chris Nadeau raised his head and smiled widely. "I promise," he vowed and I knew it was as good as the gospel.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>Like everything he did, Chris was true to his word.</p><p> </p><p>One summer night, while I lay sleeping, I heard a knock on my window. It startled me from my sleep and a dream which wasn't all that great anyway. I turned and looked to see Chris out on the tree branch outside of my window. He was perched up on it without the fear of falling and I knew what it meant and what God was trying to tell me: His bird had finally decided to fly away out of his cage.</p><p> </p><p>My bare feet felt heavy with sorrow as I walked to the window and let my friend in, wanting my farewell at least.</p><p> </p><p>"You know what I came to tell you?" he asked.</p><p> </p><p>I sat down on the edge of my bed, looking at Chris Nadeau and feeling like he might as well have lived for centuries and not only eighteen years. Maybe when he was unconscious and caught some of the fire God geld in special reserve for the chosen, those five minutes had really stretched out to five million, I thought. We'd all just been on pause so that Jehovah could tell Nadeau all he needed to know before starting his mission. "You're leaving," I stated.</p><p> </p><p>"My Thunderbird's outside," he said and I was unsure if it was an invitation or not.</p><p> </p><p>I tilted my head up in question as Chris squatted in front of me. I was about to ask if he wanted me to go with him when he suddenly kissed me. It was an unexpected kiss but welcomed. It was impossible to describe, both tender and <em>forceful</em>. I returned it with the own passion I had been saving for the boy all these years. I fell back on the bed, Chris' lips still on mine and we proceeded to kiss each other lying down on the old mattress. I felt the surge of power again, like I was some conducter where the current that had once ran through his body was transferred to me. The hair on my body stood up all over and my nipples began to tingle and to become partially hard, inverted as they were. I moaned in a certain pleasurable discomfort and Chris ended our kiss to stare down into my face.</p><p> </p><p>Inevitably his eyes roamed lower to my large breasts, rising and falling in exaggeration. The shape of my nipples were visible through my oft worn and thus thinning night shirt. We both watched my chest rising and falling then. One second it was hidden under threadbare cotton and the next I was lying under the young man, exposed,  Chris having lifted it in a single swift motion. Half hard nipples on plump pale mounds were visible in the moonlight and desperate to come out.</p><p> </p><p>That intense look was still in Chris' eyes and I watched him bring his left hand to my right breast. I felt the first contact of his fingertip with the nip and felt it run with speed and a jolt to my clitoris. I took a deep breath, causing the finger to push more into the pinkness. I watched, mesmerized, as Chris began to play with it, rubbing his finger along the bumpy areola and flicking the nipple, an act which felt suprising good. A few times he pinched it and tugged also. He followed the manipulation over to the other breast, and every single touch was turning me on terribly.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually his mouth was brought into it. He used everything at his disposal to call the nipples the rest of the way out. His tongue ran up and down them, letting the nubs enjoy both the warmth of his tongue and its roughness. They were slowly licked only for the tip to dance around the similarly pink tip of my nipple. This was soon followed by his lips closing about them in long, slow sensuous suckles. I muffled a cry, not wanting my mother or sister to hear and come running and interrupt us, as my nipples were becoming fully erect from the young man's clever touch.</p><p> </p><p>In this state of hardness, Chris would bring his hand to the one free of his mouth and I would watch him in my ecstasy playing with the raised nub like he used to do all throughout class with his eraser. It was one of my sexual fantasies coming true and the feeling of what he was doing was better than any fantasy I had ever conjured or feeling I had ever experienced. I cooed at first and then bit my fist, fighting off sounds which would surely have made my family come running.</p><p> </p><p>I moved my legs from my arousal, seperating them, and earning the busy man's attention.</p><p> </p><p>Chris' left hand went back to playing with my left breast as his eyes moved past my stomach to land on my panties, the crotch of which was feeling soaked. My nipples were filled with the intensity of his gaze and the realization that he now knew how wet he was making me.</p><p> </p><p>Sight was not enough; Chris Nadeau wanted to <em>touch</em> it to <em>know</em> it too. His left hand left me dipping into the panties to first clutch my sex before letting his finger dip in to feel for himself the fluid he was calling forth, like God helped Moses draw water from the rock.</p><p> </p><p>"Chris," I mumbled, the feeling of his finger exploring me below making my cunt clench on his finger.</p><p> </p><p>I pushed my breasts upwards as my body arched and Chris returned his attention to the huge hills of flesh as a tit pressed up into his cheek. He instantly brought his lips to the nipple again while I returned my hand to my mouth.</p><p> </p><p>I tasted blood as my teeth broke the flesh of my fist. His fingers were alternately stimulating my untorn hole and the bud between my legs; his mouth feasted on my chest. It was more than I could handle. I came, another climax he had given to me, this one at least with physical contact.</p><p> </p><p>I was crying into my fist, shaking beneath the man I loved, feeling closer to emotional bliss this time, while he was looking down at my trembling body like it was some kind of revelation.</p><p> </p><p>"Erin," Chris murmurred and kissed my tummy as he stood.</p><p> </p><p>He stood where I knelt and said my prayers and looked down at the body and I knew that he wanted to do more than to just touch me. He wanted to be touched too. It was better to give than to receive but Chris wanted the latter now too. He backed away giving me enough room.</p><p> </p><p>I got to my knees before him, like when we'd unite in prayer together, and unzipped his fly. The zipper down, my hands crept into the opening of his underwear and found the erect cock inside. I pulled it outside and stared at its raw beauty. It was strikingly hard to the touch and yet smooth for its strength. My fingers searched its length in awe. It was a frightening instrument in my hand and when one of my hands went to fondle his balls, letting them fill my palm, I was equally impressed. The more I touched and explored the young man the harder the cock was becoming. It was starting to leak, the finger which was caressing the slit becoming as wet as the crotch of my underwear had been.</p><p> </p><p>I let my tongue lick it off and tasted salt and bitterness as Chris Nadeau groaned in ecstasy above me. Encouraged by his reaction, I tasted him some more, my lips suckling on the member which dripped more of the liquid onto my tongue and down my throat.</p><p> </p><p>"Stand," he said, his voice husky and urgent and his penis beginning to twitch.</p><p> </p><p>Rising to my feet, I looked at Chris, seeing the bliss he was trying to contain written on his features. We stared at one another in the bedroom, our gazes a strange mixture of shyness and desire, before our faces moved closer and we were kissing once more. His lips were becoming more insistent as my hands were reunited with his cock and balls. Hands reached around to my ass and grabbed each cheek, digging his fingertips into the fabric . I knew he wanted me, his cock spilling out confession onto my hands, and I did not want to keep him waiting. I shimmied out of my panties, his nails meeting my skin now and not cotton, and I began to undress the man I loved then too.</p><p> </p><p>I got about as far as taking Chris' shirt off.</p><p> </p><p>Once I'd pulled the t-shirt off from his head, his long, biblical, chestnut hair falling onto his broad, naked shoulders, I'd stopped almost instantly as I saw what was lying under it. </p><p> </p><p>Jesus Christ was gazing at me.</p><p> </p><p>Emblazoned boldly on the entirety of Chris Nadeau's chest, revealed at last, was a tattoo of our Lord and Savior.</p><p> </p><p>The Son of God stared back at me, holding a staff and asking me with his warrior eyes just what I thought I was doing to one of his most valued servants? Wasn't I leading us both astray with my hungry mouth, my grasping hands and my covetous cunt?</p><p> </p><p>And wasn't I bringing him, Christ, down along with us too?</p><p> </p><p>Studying the tattoo, I suddenly worried it was true. For Jesus' navel was Chris' own and below this was another certain part of their anatomy it looked like they both now shared; Jesus had his rod and so did Nadeau, and Chris' excitement was making Jesus Christ look like he possessed a frighteningly large and massively swollen cock. Whether the boy had been aware that this would be the overall effect of his religious tattoo or if sex was the farthest thing from his mind that it had never occurred to him, it was the only thing I could think of, being blatantly right on display in front of me.</p><p> </p><p>It was everything I'd felt at war about in myself placed in an accussing image before me. My fierce, aching love of God and my fierce, aching desire for sex staring me back all in the person of Christopher Nadeau, the boy I'd loved and spent my last few years fantasizing about.</p><p> </p><p>He had turned himself into a human canvas for his God and he had finally found the opportunity to show it to me.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you like it?" Chris whispered into my ear.</p><p> </p><p>"Y-yes," I answered.</p><p> </p><p>"I was hoping you would," he said, pulling my night shirt over my head.</p><p> </p><p>I was suddenly standing there naked before Jesus, my bush burning, but in no holy way, and feeling sinful and aroused all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Chris Nadeau saw me shivering and mistakenly believing that I was cold embraced me. My breasts were pushed against his chest and I suffered a vision of my huge boobies framing either side of my Lord's head.</p><p> </p><p>Another shudder occurred and Chris gently pushed me down onto my bed. "You'll be warm enough soon," he soothed, kissing me again while his member brushed against my labia as his fingers had once done against my palm.</p><p> </p><p>The man I loved hovered over me, his eyes searching mine lovingly. It was everything I ever had dreamt of...only he was not alone. At the same time, Chris was poised at my opening and lying over me, Jesus Christ appeared to be doing likewise, until it looked like both boy and god were about to claim me.</p><p> </p><p>If I made love to Chris it suddenly seemed like I'd be making love to Jesus too.</p><p> </p><p>And I couldn't handle that with all my sin and filth, guilt and shame and one other fact burning like a candle inside of me.</p><p> </p><p>"No," I cried, shaking my head on the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>I looked up to see Chris Nadeau paused in the act of lowering his head to kiss me. He met my eyes and saw my fear and refusal.</p><p> </p><p>And in that second, my friend, the only boy I would ever love, saw rejection. Not only had his parents been ashamed of him, the Jesuits forsaken him but now also my cunt was also refusing him.</p><p> </p><p>The Warrior of Christ, my own special Valentine, swiftly threw his tattooed body off from me and began to redress.</p><p> </p><p>I sat up, still feeling shaken under the memory of Jesus' stare. Words would not come easily and when they did they sounded more like the bleating of a sheep than a human.  "No....don't...don't go. It...it wasn't you it was..."</p><p> </p><p>But Chris Nadeau would not listen. I had offended his faith in me. I had become some unbeliever in his eyes, lumped in with every other hypocrite and sinner in the town he was leaving behind.</p><p> </p><p>He stopped at the window sill, one leg out, but would not turn to actually look at me. "Goodbye Erin. God bless you and keep you always, my special, sweet Valentine."</p><p> </p><p>He leapt to the tree branch as I leapt from off of the bed and ran to the window.</p><p> </p><p>"CHRIS! WAIT!" I cried out of my window. "PLEASE! COME BACK...TAKE ME WITH YOU...PLEASE!"</p><p> </p><p>But he would not listen. I had been deemed an unbeliever in his eyes and unworthy of his simple vessel for Christ. I was weeping and sitting by the window when Mom and Tara found me; the cries they had overheard and which had brought them to my bedroom not the ones I had would have wanted them to be.</p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes I saw Chris' parents around town.</p><p> </p><p>I had heard that they had not tried to look for their son after he had left. They felt inside of their minds, and worse yet their hearts, that it was best that he was gone and approached their mailbox every holiday with fear and wariness incase a card from him was lurking somewhere inside. </p><p> </p><p>I would have looked for the Nadeaus' son myself only I was too young, possessed not even enough money to make it to the next town on the map and had no idea where to even start.</p><p> </p><p>Chris was the one whom had spent our school days dreaming of escape.</p><p> </p><p>I had only been the fat girl whom had spent it dreaming of him.</p><p> </p><p>The best I could do was go on my knees each night and pray to God that one day there would be a second coming inside of my life for the man with a tattoo of His son on his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Or that one day, Chris might find it inside of the heart that beat under that very tattoo to forgive the girl whom had just wanted to make love to <em>him</em>, the boy everyone saw as just a crazy man, and not a Christ, whom had once, and still did, suffer the very same scorn himself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dear Keanu;</p><p>Happy Valentine's Day Keanu!</p><p>I wish I could give you something physical but this story is about the best I can do. Sigh. And then it turned out sadder than I expected because I couldn't get the second half done and it worked well as a stand alone. </p><p>I do have something else planned but this took longer than I expected so I don't know...</p><p>What is your opinion on love these days? You've repeatedly stated that you believe in love at first sight etc... but you've cast great doubt on yourself ever having experienced love at all.</p><p>And to be truthful, besides your love for the book "Horseman on the Roof", your choices of films and novels are pretty well the opposite of romance and love stories. Days ago, I saw you putting down the romance in "Forrest Gump" even. I always thought Forrest and Jenny were sweet. But when I referenced FG, a few letters back, I was afraid you wouldn't like that film. Guess I was right.</p><p>Still, I would be your Forrest if I could. I don't mind being the less intelligent one in the equation.</p><p>I think that movie is rather depressing though and certainly not a "feel good" film. He loses everyone. So at the end he just sits there waiting for his son with nothing else to do and with nobody else for him.</p><p>You've seemed pretty disparaging about love stories and the emphasis of sex too. Unless it's like "The Matrix" or "A Walk in the Clouds". So, I wonder, would you like any of these then? I ask myself that repeatedly. Have I touched you or pushed you away. I have no idea.</p><p>What is your favorite romantic film?</p><p>Mine used to be Ettore Scola's "Passion d'amour". I thought that was the romantic thing I had ever seen. And the musical based on it was so beautiful too! I loved them.</p><p>Until I read the source novel.</p><p>Turns out it was autobiographical and the adaptions were over romanticized. :/ The author NEVER came to love "Fosca" despite her appearance. Even at the end, when he goes to make love to her, it is a fatalistic action because Clara dumped him. The whole time he is repulsed and horrified by what he is doing.</p><p>I kept wanting it not to be true. </p><p>It was translated from Italian and I took that specific passage into every online translation site I could find! It was always the same; only different synonyms were used. Sigh. Now I can't watch the film again; I know it's full of bull. </p><p>"October Sky" is the same.</p><p>On an interesting note, though, for "Passion", when the real life Giorgio died his Clara wouldn't acknowledge him at all, while his poor insulted Fosca never failed to leave flowers on his grave. There's that imbalance I was talking about before. People usually end up loving someone whom doesn't love them back.</p><p>I read a few weeks ago someone saying you seem to choose ugly women, yourself, Keanu. I wouldn't call them ugly myself but I'm not an expert on the subject. Now I look at myself in the mirror and I'm confused if I should want to be beautiful or ugly. I've never asked myself "Am I ugly enough?" before. It's a different experience.</p><p>But nobody should ask "Should I be more?" I guess in regards to love. If someone is supposed to love you they love you "as is" when it comes to appearances. There is no "should". Otherwise it isn't any good.</p><p>Which reminds me that in my quest for understanding romantic relationships I read an interesting article. It said that men rarely fall in love for the sake of love. That true love is something that makes them feel hopelessly out of control and they are in fear of it because it doesn't involve winning or points or anything like that. It said men form "instrumental love" to meet goals: not to be lonely, to have children, to find a good partner but not for love itself...not to love the person themselves.</p><p>Which is what "intrinsic love" is all about.</p><p>I don't know if it's true it was just rather interesting. I'd say it was sexist but a man wrote it so *shrug*.</p><p>It still seems too complicated and confusing to me.</p><p>I think I peaked, relationship wise, at 7 years old with Morgan. But, I guess, some people don't even get that so I was lucky. </p><p>Anyway, I want you to know that I love you, Keanu. That word might make you uncomfortable but, don't worry, you don't have to pick it up right now. You can just let it sit there between us for as long as you want. Some things become more valuable over time and you do like wine. Maybe one day those words will be appealing enough to be looked back at and cherished or deemed as something that was precious. </p><p> </p><p>Much love,<br/>Erin<br/>XO XO<br/>:D &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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